Victory Square

FOURTEEN

Around nine in the morning, Gavra reached Lenin Avenue. The metro had not been open, so he’d walked from the edge of town. Like me and Katja, he was able to keep moving only because of adrenaline and that other unknown substance. On the endless walk these things left him, and he felt like a soldier on a long march, only aware of placing one foot in front of the other.

In October Square, he had finally found people. They were grouped around Max and Corina’s cafe, a place popular with the Militia because of the discounts it offered. Today, though, there were no militiamen, just twenty students around a broken window, some sitting on chairs inside, others on the sidewalk looking in as a bearded young man lectured them on revolutionary organization. A few students turned to stare at Gavra, and he veered off to the other side of the square at about the moment the gunfire started.

A sniper on a residential rooftop shot slowly and deliberately into the crowd. Running for the shelter of a doorway, Gavra heard screams and saw two students fall as the others scrambled in through the broken window.

He made it out of October alive and a little more awake and found the Militia station abandoned except for two old sergeants manning the phones. “What’re you doing here?” said one.

“Going to my office,” Gavra told him. “Many calls?”

The sergeant shrugged. “Sure, but we just tell them to stay inside.”

“Yeah,” said the other.

“You’re not investigating anything?”

The second one shrugged. “Someone’s gotta hold down the fort.”

The homicide office was locked, so he broke the glass to unlock it from inside, then started through the paperwork in his desk. There wasn’t much to burn. His most sensitive case files were stored at Yalta. He took out the files that he kept on us, his coworkers, and put them in the metal wastebasket. He used lighter fluid he found in Bernard’s desk and soaked the files, then lit them.

I later asked why he did this. Why he burned the files on us. He said it was because they contained a record of our assistance to him over the years. If the revolutionaries got hold of that, it would be a simple matter to convict us of being Ministry agents.

As he poked the embers with a metal ruler, his phone rang.

He didn’t want to answer it. All he wanted was to get back and make sure Karel was all right, then go to sleep for a very long time.

But he did answer it, and that changed everything.

“Hello?”

“Gavra NOW-kass?”

He gripped the edge of his desk. “Harold.” He said in English, “Yes, it’s me.”

“Oh, Jesus, I’m glad I finally got you. Gavra, something’s gone really wrong.”

“What is it? Are you in trouble?”

“Trouble’s a good word for it. We’re at the hotel, and people… well, they’re shooting at the hotel.”

“Who’s shooting at the hotel?”

“Looks to me like army. Christ, Beth’s scared out of her wits.”

“Why are they shooting at the hotel?”

“You think I know? Oh!” He heard Beth’s scream, and movement.

“Harold? Harold?”

“We’re okay, we’re okay. Just a scare. A bullet came through our window. Right through!”

Gavra rubbed his temples. “Look, I’ll be over as soon as I can. What’s your room?”

“Three-oh-five.”

“Stay there. Sit behind the bed-no. Go into the hallway. You’ll be safe there. But wait for me in the hallway. Don’t leave. Okay?”

“We’re not going anywhere, Gavra. No worries about that.”

The Militia garage attendant was gone, so Gavra broke into his key rack and took a Militia Karpat. He sped down Lenin and over to Victory, which was empty except for the Central Committee Building. Along its steps, men and women were smoking and going in and out of the front door. From the wide balcony where he’d seen Tomiak Pankov fear for his life, two young men were tying up a banner that had been crudely painted with the words

GALICIA REVOLUTIONARY COMMITTEE HQ.

Through his windows, he could hear the gunfire from Yalta Boulevard.

He stopped at the end of the long, wide street. Up two blocks at number 20, an army truck was parked among bullet-riddled cars. Behind the cars, soldiers crouched, their Kalashnikovs aimed up high along the Metropol’s glass tower. Occasionally, he made out a form on the roof, which shot back and disappeared again. There were no pedestrians here.

Gavra approached the only way he could, by driving his Karpat up on the sidewalk that led to the Metropol and speeding the two long blocks. When he reached an intersection, his car lurched painfully and bounced, then bounced again as it jumped the next curb. From this angle, the snipers’bullets wouldn’t reach him. He hoped the soldiers on the other side of the road wouldn’t decide to take a shot.

He parked just short of the Metropol’s glass entrance, which was now shattered, and ran, crouched, inside. The lobby was full of soldiers and journalists wearing three-day beards. Everyone gaped at him, and the journalists with cameras started taking his picture. “Who are you?” a woman asked in French, followed by an Englishman asking the same thing. He pushed past them and reached the stairwell. The soldiers never thought to ask who he was.

Just before the third floor, he stopped to catch his breath. His body didn’t want to continue, so he had to grab the balustrade and pull himself the final steps. He didn’t know what he was going to do with this stupid American couple; he only hoped he wouldn’t get killed trying to help.

The third-floor corridor was empty, and the only sound was the muted thump of gunfire outside. He’d told them to stay out here. His anger flashed, then faded-perhaps they’d been hit by stray bullets before they could make it out of the room. He rushed to number 305 and knocked on the door.

“Come in!” shouted Harold.

Gavra opened the door and stepped inside. The first thing he noticed was that their window was completely intact. There were no cracks or holes in it.

Then he realized why. This side of the hotel faced the back alley, not Yalta Boulevard.

Harold and Beth were sitting on the bed beside each other, smiling at him. The gunshots were quieter here. “Gavra,” said Beth. She clapped once. “You came!”

Gavra started to say something but couldn’t. Beth hadn’t spoken in English. She’d spoken our language, with the fluency of a native. He stepped forward, past the bathroom door and into the room. “What’s going on?”

“Ask him,” said Harold, and Gavra heard movement behind himself.

He turned. The bathroom door was open, and Nikolai Romek was standing in it, holding a Beretta. “Hello, Gavra.”

As he came forward, a familiar brick of a man with a thick mustache followed him out, holding a small burlap sack. Just the right size for a head. “Balint,” said Romek.

Balint handed the bag to Gavra. He remembered now-one of Kolev’s two assistants. “You traitorous shit,” said Gavra.

“Put it on,” said Romek.

That’s when, despite his fatigue, the panic set in. “Tell me what’s going on!”

“I’m going to make you famous,” said Romek.

“You’ll be a hero,” Beth said gleefully.

Harold looked at his wristwatch, stood, and said in English, “Let’s get this show on the road.”

“Well?” said Romek. With the Beretta, he gestured at the bag in Gavra’s hand.

When Gavra shook his head no, Balint came over to help him with it.